a no good very bad day
by The Lady Avaritia
Summary: Peter sees Laura's face in every blonde teenage girl. And then he doesn't. And there's always blood, the blood just wouldn't go away. And then there's Derek offering him a beer, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can live like that, with the pathetic pack of misfits and strays that Derek has collected, if only for a while. -gen, angst-


**I got into the Teen Wolf fandom. Fuckity fuck I'm fucked. Sassy! Peter for the win. And the angst… God the angst. And Sterek. Sigh. Here is some Peter gen for the fans. I may do a sequel, depending on the reception of this.**

a no good very bad day

The very first time Peter approaches Lydia, he doesn't have enough time to blink before he has to make his way out of a sizeable hole in a wall… three rooms from where they were, with a growling Jackson quickly advancing.

He gets the message and backs the fuck off… all the way into the woods.

He supposes he could say that he just wanted to apologize to the girl

(who looks like Laura, and he killed Laura, oh, God, the blood, and she cried uncle sweet little Laura and this girl who looks like her sometimes and he's nearly killed her too and he is _sorrysorrysorrysofuckingsorr y, didn'tmeantodoit,prettypleaseforgiveme)_

But his word is worth shit at about this time, so he doesn't. Instead, he takes a page from the Derek Hale book and walks at the edge of the woods, brooding. Or, as he refers to it – thinking deep thoughts. Like maybe coming up with a way to save all their lives from the advancing Alfa pack. And finishing off Gerard. Yeah.

When he doesn't feel like padding barefoot on the cracking leaves anymore, he slumps down heavily. His body is still stiff from oh, right, from being dead. He just lay there, on the forest floor, looking up. He can close his life and pretend that this is years ago. That nothing of this has ever happened.

That he just stepped out for a walk, a breath of air that doesn't smell like baby vomit

(little Jessica, precious little Jessica, and that BITCH BURNED HER TOO, but she was HUMAN, SHE WAS HUMAN DAMNIT!)

That Derek and Laura are in the sun-filled kitchen, pretending to do homework whilst squabbling like army generals in battle, and their mother would be there all smiles, and they would demand to know when is Uncle coming back, and the memory is like an ugly clawed fist clenching over his heart, and fuck. Just. Fuck.

He pretends that the wetness on his cheeks is just dew from the tree above him. His family is gone. And they are never, NEVER coming back again.

_(Gone, burned, burned in the fire, all of them, nobody left, just him and Derek, and they're alone and he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what he's doing half the time, god, so lost, so alone)_

He can still hear their screams. Some nights (most nights) he can still hear their screams.

His eyes shoot open, and bleed into iridescent amber. Someone really is screaming. A girl, and it's a loud pathetic noise, laced with the animalistic whine of wolf.

Wasn't there a she wolf in Derek's pack of misfits?

He is on his feet in a flash, his sleek body shooting between the trees towards the sound of that pathetic screaming. He lands on the clearing with the necessary flamboyance, by blasting one of the alphas into a tree, and then straightens up, to look around himself.

There are three of them, though there's probably more coming. The girl is on the ground, arms twisted behind her back. There's blood. So much blood

(and her hair is strawberry, not golden, and her lips are fuller, and suddenly it's Laura all over again, and god, he didn't mean to, didn't -)

And there's another not-alpha, but yes-wolf, a strong dark-skinned boy, but he seems unconscious. And the alphas have suddenly become five now. Something tells him his black Levi's jeans and black cashmere sweater are going to be ruined.

He takes a step back, and parts his full lips, his canines slowly elongating. His claws gleam in the filtered sunlight. And his eyes glow amber that flashes red.

He knows exactly how he looks. He looks dangerous. And attractive. He turns towards the only female , craning his neck, and smiles with his eyes.

"These," he says, pointing at the two teenagers, "are of mine."

"The where's their alpha?"

"On a party."

"Oh?"  
"His own pity party."

He scoffs, looking ashamed for Derek's sake. Then raises his head and flashes a grin.

"But I'm here."

"And will a Beta like yourself do… here?"

Good question. But he doesn't say it out loud. Instead, he takes a small step back, steels himself for leverage, and then throws himself at the nearest alpha, easily bringing him to the ground with the force of momentum, only to find himself sliding down the tree-trunk next to the Blondie.

He crouches low.

"I'm with Derek," he whispers urgently in her ear, disguising it as a cough of pain, "Can you move?"

Brief nod.

"Good." He moves, purposefully making his moves shaky and unsteady, and slashes her binds with his claw. "At my signal, grab your boyfriend and run as fast as you can towards the Hale house… NOW!"

As soon as he yells it, he jumps back to his feet, and narrowly dodges an open-palm hit to his face, and slams his clawed hand into his attacker's stomach, guts and blood pouring out freely. He grins as the man falls down, raises his hand to his lips and slowly licks the blood off of his long fingers.

(blood, sweet, dark, warm, metallic, coppery, blood, red, thick, gushing, blood, it all comes down to it, blood and wolfsbane, that's how he lives, blood, more of it, more, and a little more after)

Then he attacks again. His body is built for speed and agility, not raw force, like Derek's. A strangled sound comes out of his lips when a gash to his side bares his ribs, and then he growls.

"That sweater," he hisses low and dangerous, "was 100% cashmere."

Then again, those alphas wouldn't know classy is it killed them. Which he was about to do. Which was stupid of him. But hey, everyone has a dumb moment once in a while. His just seemed to be more and more often after coming back from the dead.

Alright. So he'd brought the attackers' number from five to four. Okay. Easy. Right. Right?

Yeah. He was fucked.

-x-

Some time later had Peter Hale sprawled on the second-hand ashy torn couch in the Hale house, groaning in pain and pressing an ice-pack (and where, just where in fuck did that come from, because he distinctly recalls a certain lack of electricity AND running water in the pathetic remnants of the house) against his bruised face, and holding a bloody rag against his side. Where his ribs are still visible though layers of skin and muscle.

("Okay, thank you for the awaiting me MONTHS of profoundly disturbing nightmares about your ripped naked torso, as if you weren't starring in most of my nightmares already," Stiles had said.

"My naked torso only stars in your nightmares?" Peter deliberately misunderstood the statement. And Stiles took on an engine red facial color and stomped off.)

But yeah. It hurt like a bitch. And his clothes were ruined, which whatever, fine, but he would like to (once, just once) put something on and have it NOT ripped apart within hours (certain situations, of course, were subject to exceptions, but only very specific, very much NC-17 situations).

Derek had helped his clean the wound and bandage it, and then stormed off to (sulk) discipline the strays.

Strays. That's what they all were, weren't they? Strays. No home, no family, no nothing. Just a bunch of confused kids who thought the bite was magically going to fix them.

Well. Sucks to be them, then.

He doesn't need to open his eyes to know who is in the room.

"Lydia." He says shortly.

"Peter." She sounds like she always does, that flat tone of voice which means she is hurt, or insecure, or just plain confused.

"I sincerely hope you aren't here just so that Jackson would have an excuse to send me crashing through a wall again."

He can almost see her shaking her head, perfectly straightened hair swishing.

"No. No. I came to… You wanted to talk to me. Before you left. Was it important?"

He lets a sardonic smile curl his lips.

"It's always important with you, Lydia. But no. It doesn't matter."

(the apology trashes in his head, it's ready to claw out of his throat, he is ready to say it… except not and he's not sure who he's apologizing to either maybe Lydia, or Laura, the teenage death girls, strawberry curls and pretty smiles and sun-kissed skin and bubblegum lip-gloss, and the smell of summer, and fuck)

"It wasn't important," he repeats and there's something in his smile, something that makes Lydia turn around and leave. He can hear the click-clack of her heels as she steps out on the porch, and then the rustle of clothes when she snuggles into Jackson.

The next set of footsteps is slightly wobbling.

"Blondie." He allows a condescending smirk to cross his lips.

"You…" Blondie pauses, and says "Erica. I'm Erica."

"That's good to know… Blondie. Now, did you want something? I am in the midst of recovering from a nearly fatal wound that I acquired whilst… oh, right, whilst saving you."

Her heartbeat speeds up. Guilt-trip? Sadness? Fear?

"Don't play self-righteous," she snaps instead. "Derek told me all about you."

Ouch.

"All about me? I hope not. Because damn, he knows some embarrassing details about my past."

"I don't care," she interrupts with a sharp intake of breath. Then shuffles her feet.

"I wanted to thank you, okay? You… you saved me. Me and Boyd. So, yeah. Thank you. For that."

"Don't mention it. Seriously. Don't. I have a reputation to maintain."

"Derek let us stay in the pack."  
"Wondrous."

She clearly expects more, and when he remains completely silent and ignores her, she leaves, dragging the scent of dirt, grass and kicked puppy away with her.

He shifts on the couch. The couch sucks. The couch seriously sucks. The spring is digging in the small of his back. Seriously, he's going to hurt someone for this.

When the menagerie of depressed emotional messes that is Derek's pack clear out, and it's just the two Hales in the ruins of their house and lives, Peter finally opens his eyes, and exhales sharply. The wound is almost closed, and there aren't ay bruises on his face left.

Derek walks in, in ripped jeans and a top, barefooted, and carrying two beers.

"You let Misfits 1 and 2 stay. Why?"

"We grow strong in numbers."

"Derek, this is my bullshit-meter. And right now, you're scoring way and I mean way over nine thousand."

"Just… I thought I could do this. I thought I could be a good Alpha. Peter, they're kids. And they look at me, with their big trusting eyes like they expect me to have the answer to the universe, and I have no fucking idea what in fuck I'm doing-"  
"Language!"  
"And I just… I don't want to fail them, Peter. I don't."

Peter nods, and reaches silently for the beer he's being handed. He uses a claw to open it, raises it to his lips, and drinks solidly.

"You don't call me uncle anymore," he says quietly, mournfully.

"Sometimes… I don't feel like you're the uncle I thought I knew anymore."

"Okay," Peter says.

"Okay?"

"Okay. I get it. Okay."

"I'm sorry."  
"What for?"  
"Kate, the fire, abandoning Laura, not visiting your catatonic self more often, burning you to a crisp then killing you, getting you involved with the Misfits, all of them. Just… Sorry."

"Derek?"  
"Yes?"  
"Say something this pathetic again, and I promise I will beat you with a baseball bat dipped in wolfsbane until you pass out, and then let Scott's girlfriend practice her archery on your ass."

"Ex-girlfriend."  
"What?"  
"Allison. She is his ex-girlfriend."  
"Oh, great," Peter groaned, theatrically shielding his eyes with his hand. "More issues to add!" Then turned towards his nephew, a strange look in his eyes.

"Drink your beer Derek, and go to sleep. I'll keep watch for the night. C'mon. You've had a very bad, no-good day."

Derek shook his head.

"We both have." He said and raised his bottle. "So cheers to that."

A sour smile twisted his lips, marring his face like a scar. And Peter found it in him to smile as well.


End file.
